


where the fallen angels sleep, the crooked hearts and the crossroads meet

by hedakombikru



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Physical & Mental Suffering, Plane Crash AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4490181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedakombikru/pseuds/hedakombikru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A plane carrying one hundred juvenile delinquents crashes on a seemingly deserted island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So this is kind of loosely based on the novel “Beauty Queens” by Libba Bray, but with largely canon-esque elements from The 100. It’s a modern AU, they’re prisoners, not beauty queens (hence, loosely based), however the hundred in this case is a mix of Arker and Grounder characters. I’ve taken some creative liberties in messing with peoples’ ages here, more so with some characters than with others as you’ll discover, but I needed a good mix of people in there. This is my first The 100 fic but hopefully everyone will enjoy it and comments/kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> Title is from the song "Comeback" by Redlight King.

“Prisoner 319, turn around and face the wall.”

Clarke glances up from the pattern she’s tracing in the coating of dust on the floor of her cell to see a pair of eyes peering through the small, barred opening in the door. She can heard faint shouts echoing in the corridor as she stands with her back to the entering guards, who proceed to clamp shackles around her wrists and ankles with more force than necessary.

“What’s going on?” she asks. Her voice cracks from lack of use, a side effect of months spent in solitary with no one around to talk to but the guard who brought her meals. Clarke had tried striking up a conversation once, early on, but the withering stare she’d received in response was enough to shut her up after that.

“Quiet,” barks one of the guards. He’s the taller of the two men, with bushy eyebrows that lower in a glare when Clarke tries to look over her shoulder as they usher her out of her cell and down the hallway.

Clarke doesn’t feel particularly intimidated. She wants answers. “Am I being released from solitary?”

“I said, quiet.” Clarke almost trips over her shackles when he gives her back a rough shove. The other guard’s hand gripping her left bicep is the only thing that stops her from face planting on the concrete.

“Hey!” Her further protests are cut off by more of the shouting she’d heard earlier. A glance over the edge of the walkway leading from solitary block reveals a number of other kids in green jumpsuits and shackles being herded out of their cells, just like she was. Judging by the shouts of confusion, none of them seem to know what is happening, either.

“What’s going on?” Clarke asks again, more forcefully.

“You’re being transferred,” the shorter guard finally answers. He seems younger and nicer than Eyebrows. Clarke looks back to see his nametag. Jackson.

“To another cell?” she questions, frowning.

“To another prison,” Jackson replies.

“But-”

Eyebrows cuts her off. “Jackson, don’t indulge the prisoner.”

They refuse to answer anymore of her questions after that, so Clarke purses her lips and simply observes, as she and several other inmates are lead through the echoing halls of the prison.

The Ton DC Juvenile Corrections Center is divided into three sections: Solitary; regular security, or Ark Sector; and high security, or Ground Sector. The latter two sections are further divided into male and female blocks that almost never intermingle.

High security inmates, or ‘Grounders,’ as those on the inside refer to them, are the kids whose crimes (or some of them) are of the violent variety – if you maim or kill another human being, and aren’t tried as an adult for it, you’re bound to end up in Ground Sector. It leaves a bitter taste in Clarke’s mouth to recall that a few of those kids had been unjustly imprisoned by corrupt courts for acts of self-defense, and she tries not to dwell on it.

Clarke, when she’d first arrived at Ton DC, had been an inmate in Ark Sector, where all the other criminal minors went. She and her friend Wells had publicly set fire to the (unoccupied) archive building where Senator Jaha and her mother, a well-respected surgeon with political ties, had been holding secret meetings with other shady entities for months, about what, she was never entirely certain. Clarke and Wells found out about some of it shortly before her father had been killed in a work ‘accident,’ after threatening to take their less than legal dealings public. Clarke had blamed her mother and decided to take her father’s mission into her own hands, roping Wells in as well, a choice she now regrets wholeheartedly. And much to their fury and dismay, Wells’ father still managed, despite the publicity, to duck most public suspicion and cover up any signs of corruption. This included having to let his son and his coconspirator’s daughter go to jail, lest people become aware of his willingness to pull strings and potentially draw unwanted attention after all the efforts he’d made to shift suspicion of systemic corruption onto other local politicians.

So Clarke ended up in Ton DC, mourning her father and hating her mother more and more each day.

As an ‘Arker,’ she’d had a bit more freedom to wander the prison, and she took full advantage. This freedom, and her natural ability to slip past preoccupied guards undetected, is what had lead to her stumbling upon a private conversation between the warden and a man she didn’t recognize. The revelation of yet more corrupt dealings in this city hadn’t been a surprise; the unidentified man and the warden emerging suddenly to find her outside the office eavesdropping had. After weeks of stubbornly protesting the prison’s general mistreatment of her and her fellow inmates, this had been the last straw. They’d tossed her into solitary to keep her quiet and never looked back.

Clarke wonders if this sudden mass movement of inmates has anything to do with what she’d overheard that day about the diverting of prison funds.

Despite being one of the largest juvenile facilities in the country, Clarke knows from her mother that Ton DC has been nearing overcapacity for a while now (because of course the government isn’t willing to put money into programs that will get these kids out of prison, or even keep them from being sent there in the first place. That would be too smart a move for them. Clarke mentally scoffs). If what she’d heard is true, Ton DC won’t be able to sustain itself at this capacity much longer. In which case, this forced exodus makes sense. But she still has no idea where they’re going.

She’s being herded, by just Jackson now, toward the rear doors of the prison with kids from seemingly every section, and it does little to settle her nerves. She hasn’t been surrounded by this many people in months, and Clarke thinks she might almost be thrilled to see the outdoors again if it weren’t for the general air of uncertainty around her.

Clarke and the other inmates are shuffled in two lines through the back doors, across a side yard, and through a gate into a parking lot occupied by four transport buses. Three of the buses are already loaded with more teenagers in green jumpsuits and chains, with a handful of guards in each to keep them in check. Clarke figures they must have hired additional guards for this transfer.

A few of the kids near her murmur in confusion or fear as they’re ushered onto the bus and chained to their seats, but in general it’s surprisingly quiet, and she wonders if everyone but her has been told what’s going on.

The buses resemble school buses, but with bars to hook their hand and ankle cuffs to, and leather straps hanging from the roof for the guards to hold themselves steady where they stand evenly spaced down the aisle. Two inmates are placed in each bus seat, and Clarke estimates there are about a hundred inmates between the four vehicles.

She’s one of the last to be seated, near the front of the bus. Jackson sits her down and chains her up next to a girl who looks about a year or two younger than Clarke’s sixteen, with long dark hair and hazel eyes that flicker anxiously around the bus and its occupants until Clarke is fully settled next to her. Clarke thinks she vaguely recognizes the girl as an Arker, but she’d only spent a couple weeks there before being thrown in solitary, so she can’t be sure.

The girl stares at her for a minute, waits until Jackson has fully righted himself and taken his place in the aisle before speaking. “Hey. I’m Octavia,” she greets. “I’d shake your hand but,” a rattle of her handcuffs finishes the statement, and Clarke huffs out a small laugh.

“I’m Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you, Clarke. You a Grounder?”

The bluntness of the question momentarily startles Clarke. She blinks, laughs again, and answers with a shake of her head.

“Really? Why haven’t I seen you around Ark, then?” Octavia sounds both curious and skeptical of her, but Clarke finds she’s already starting to like the girl. Had she stayed in Ark, they might have become friends.

She mentally shrugs and goes with the honest explanation. “I was in Ark Sector when I first got here, but I’ve been in solitary confinement for the last, I don’t know, three or four months? It’s hard to keep track of time in there.”

Octavia gives a low whistle. “Damn. What did you do to get thrown in that hellhole for _months_?”

“Overheard a conversation I shouldn’t have.”

Octavia’s eyebrows rise. “Between some guards?”

Their voices are hushed, but Clarke glances at the nearest guards anyway. They aren’t paying attention.

She turns back to Octavia and shakes her head. “Between the warden and some other guy. They locked me in solitary after that so I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d heard.”

“Wait,” Octavia frowns. “So do you know what all this is about, then?” She tilted her head side to side in lieu of gesturing with her hands.

Clarke furrows her brow. “You don’t know?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. Not for sure.” Clarke purses her lips, lowers her voice even more. “But I think I might have an idea–”

The crackling of the loudspeaker at the front of the bus cuts her off and a collective silence settles over the bus as everyone looks up to see the warden holding the mouthpiece up to speak.

“Good morning, inmates,” greets Warden Kane, rather insincerely, if you ask Clarke. “You probably aren’t aware of this,” Clarke almost misses it, but she knows she sees Kane’s cold eyes focus on her for a brief moment before he continues, “but our prison is reaching overcapacity, which means we can no longer afford to contain all of our inmates in this one facility.”

“Then let us go!” a boy shouts from the back of the bus.

Kane glares, clearing his throat into the microphone. “I can assure you, that won’t be happening. However, we have selected one hundred inmates – all of you,” he gestures to the occupants of their bus and then to the other three buses outside, “to be transferred to a new, unoccupied facility on Oahu, until such time that you can be transferred back to Ton DC following some…renovations, to accommodate the growing influx.”

The bus erupts in shouts and complaints – and a few joyful whoops at the prospect of prison on a tropical island – before Kane brings the microphone back up to his mouth, tells them dryly to “Have a nice trip,” and quickly departs.

Clarke frowns and sits back to stare past Octavia out the window as the buses begin to drive away from the prison. Kane had confirmed her suspicions. Sending a hundred inmates off to be someone else’s problem would cut down on their spending probably just enough to make up for whatever they’d been syphoning off since Clarke overheard that conversation. With Jaha’s help, surely, no one would notice the difference, and the shady business could continue unhindered.

Clarke can’t help feeling that she got herself and Wells locked up for absolutely nothing.

* * *

 

After nearly two hours, the line of rusted white prison buses pulls onto an airport tarmac near a moderately sized airplane. Clarke had spent some of that time chatting more with Octavia, who had apparently been convicted along with her older brother on numerous counts of petty larceny, grand theft auto, and property damage (“Took them years to even catch us. Idiots.”), but the rest of the trip had been spent in contemplative silence.

The process of unloading all the kids from the buses, getting them organized, and re-chaining them to their seats on the plane – hands cuffed, legs chained to the seat in front of them – takes another full hour. Somehow in all the chaos, Clarke gets separated from Octavia and ends up getting an aisle seat in the middle of the plane next to another girl she vaguely recognizes from Ark Sector. Octavia is now in the window seat just across the aisle to her left, still close enough to talk to, but with Jackson in the seat between them, it makes conversation somewhat difficult.

At least the seats are comfortable enough, restraints notwithstanding.

Her companion gives a thoughtful hum. “Man, this plane is shit,” she complains, tilting her head back to look around.

“It’s all that can be afforded at this point,” replies Jackson. “Don’t worry, though. It’s a sturdy plane, it will get us there no problem.”

The girl responds with a noncommittal grunt and Clarke chuckles nervously.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m Clarke.” She holds out her right hand as best she can and they manage an awkward handshake around the cuffs.

“Raven.” Raven eyes her for a moment, until understanding flashes in her eyes. “You’re the girl that got carted off to solitary a few months ago.”

“Um… yeah, that’s me.” Surprised, Clarke shifts in her seat, facing Raven with a questioning look.

Raven shrugs, smirks. “So what’d you do?”

Clarke quirks an eyebrow. “To get put in solitary or to get arrested in the first place?”

Another shrug. “Both.”

“Arson,” she says, leaving out the details. “And solitary was to keep me quiet after I overheard Warden Kane discussing plans for illegal handling of prison funds.”

Clarke thinks Raven almost seems impressed, at the arson or the eavesdropping, she’s not sure. Maybe both.

“Nice.” Raven slouches back in her seat, hands clasping and unclasping in her lap like she can’t figure out what to do with them. “My friend Finn and I got caught breaking into a NASA research facility,” she offers cheekily.

“Wow,” Clarke says. “What were you doing there?”

Raven grins with something akin to pride. “Well, it was partly just to see if we could do it. We did, by the way. The alarms didn’t go off until we were already inside the building grabbing equipment. That was the other reason. I needed some high quality tech, and where better to get it, right? It was fun, up until Finn accidentally tripped a sensor. I took what I could carry and we almost made it out, but there were more guards than we thought and they had us surrounded right before we reached the fence.”

Clarke laughs, more out of shock than anything. The plane starts taxiing onto the runway then, so she settles into her seat properly again, facing forward. “Is it bad that I’m kind of impressed?” she admits after a minute. “What were you going to do with NASA-level equipment, anyway?”

Raven hums thoughtfully. “When I found out my benign heart murmur meant I’d never qualify to be an astronaut, I figured I’d take things into my own hands, me being a genius and all.”

“Seriously?”

Raven chuckles. “Sort of. The genius part is a hundred percent true. Mostly I just really wanted to get my hands on some of that equipment. Even interns don’t get to go near the kind of stuff I was interested in. I’m only seventeen – well, in two weeks. It would have taken me forever to get to a point where I’d be allowed access to a facility like that.” She sighs. “I was impatient and Finn offered to help me sneak in as a Christmas present. I was cocky enough to think we could do it – we’d snuck into other places before – but if I’d known we would both be in jail for it now, I never would have let him come with. That’s my only regret about the whole thing.”

Nodding, thinking of Wells and his initial reluctance before she managed to convince him on the fire, Clarke murmurs, “I know what you mean.”

They fall silent after that, only partly because it’s difficult to hear anything over the cacophony of kids shouting to be heard over the roar of the plane as it takes off. Isolated island prison, here they come.

* * *

 

They’re somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, several hours into the flight, when the plane starts to shake violently. It jolts Clarke awake, and she cringes at the painful twinge in her neck resulting from dozing off with her chin pressed against her chest.

She blinks blearily at her surroundings, watching a few kids clutch nervously at the seats in front of them with their restrained hands. The plane shudders again and someone screams.

One of the guards near the front of the plane stands then, left hand raised in a placating gesture. “Everyone remain calm,” he orders, “It’s just a little turbulence.” His attempt at a comforting tone leaves something to be desired, though, and considering the white-knuckled grip his other hand has on the top of his seat, Clarke has a feeling he’s struggling to take his own advice. Yet another jolt of the airplane sends him tumbling back into his seat, just as the speaker system used for the pilot’s announcements crackles overhead.

The silence that follows is even less reassuring than the guard’s attempt to calm them down.

Raven curses after the fourth bout of turbulence. “Fuck. I’ve never flown before, but that does _not_ feel like regular turbulence to me.”

If Clarke were the kind of person who believed in the concept of jinxing things, she’s not above admitting she’d almost certainly blame Raven for what happens next.

The plane gives one last hard shake that sends oxygen masks falling from the overhead and then the cabin is blanketed in an ominous silence, the kind of silence that should never be heard when a plane’s turbines are meant to be propelling it through the air.

It is thankfully not dark enough outside the plane for it to be impossible to see when the cabin lights abruptly flicker off, which seems to be the impetus that sets everything back in motion as people begin to scream and tug at their oxygen masks, and the aircraft tilts forward in preparation for its nosedive into the sea.

Before Clarks pulls on her own mask, she finds the sense to turn to Jackson and yell, “You have to unlock our restraints! Give us a fighting chance!” she implores.

Jackson momentarily freezes in terror, but then he and a couple other guards that heard Clarke over the screaming tug out their keys and do as she says. She only hopes the other guards take the cue from them and help.

Jackson unlocks Octavia and Clarke in quick succession, despite his terrified trembling, and is moving on to Raven, stretching the elastic limits of his oxygen mask, when the plane gives another sudden jolt. It tosses him headfirst into the seat in front of Clarke.

How she manages to hear the sickening snap of his neck over the blood curdling screams and the roaring of the crashing plane, Clarke will never know, but the guard is dead before he even slumps to the floor, keys falling from limp fingers and skittering under her seat.

The shock grips Clarke long enough for Raven to have to nudge at her desperately to bring her back to her senses, eyes wild above the plastic mask on her face.

Clarke scrambles for the key in her panic, scoops it up quickly, and lunges over to unlock Raven’s restraints.

She frees several other kids around her before the lack of an oxygen mask starts to become a problem, and manages to pass the keys off to the last boy she unlocks with an order to help whoever he can before stumbling back to her seat. She presses the mask to her face and inhales gratefully. Raven, still in her seat, grips tightly to Clarke’s forearm for a moment as Clarke meets her eyes, trying and failing to look anything but utterly terrified as she nods at the other girl.

Jackson’s body is inexplicably no longer where she last saw it slumped between seats, but she tries not to dwell on that, because everything is happening too fast and there is nothing she can do about a dead man.

Clarke isn’t sure how long they have been plummeting towards the ocean, but as she peers around the shuddering aircraft she knows there will never be enough time to unlock all one hundred inmates. Only half of the guards from the buses were required to join them on the flight, and four of them aren’t even bothering to help unlock the kids’ chains, opting instead for self preservation. Maybe they are all going to die anyway and it will be pointless, but anger still registers somewhere in the back of Clarke’s frenzied mind over the fact that they’re doing nothing.

She has one last fleeting thought that she should perhaps get into a brace position, and somehow manages to do just that right before she blacks out entirely.

* * *

 

It can’t be more than a minute or so before she comes to, emerging from the water with a stuttered gasp, clawing at the debris floating around her. When Clarke kicks her legs to tread water, her foot catches on a sandbank. She wipes ineffectively at the blood and saltwater in her eyes and blinks them open fully to take in her surroundings.

What she thought was a sandbank is actually just the ocean floor, near enough to shore that she can almost touch. The shore is part of what is most likely an island, and as her vision clears Clarke begins to realize that it is littered with bodies and airplane debris.

Then it’s as if all her senses come back at once, full force. Her nose fills with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, which she can also taste in her mouth. All around her people are screaming and splashing and there are bodies floating _everywhere_ that are doing neither and never will again.

She finally gathers herself enough to manage the three-meter swim to shore. It’s a battle to get through the masses of debris in her path, but when she claws her way onto shore and slumps against a hunk of tattered airplane seat, Clarke heaves a sigh of relief.

After a few minutes, she finds the energy to sit up, and uses this new vantage point to take in the surrounding wreckage.

There are still a number of people swimming and flailing about in the water, which she can tell by looking farther out would be the clear blue-green characteristic of the tropics, if not for the blood and jet fuel that muddy everything within a hundred meters of shore. There are also a lot more bodies than she’d been able to see from the water. Some of them are burned beyond recognition, others missing limbs.

A few that made it to land might be dead, or might just be unconscious, she can’t tell. At least a quarter of the inmates must be dead, either from impact or from drowning still chained to their seats. She’s spotted a few guards already, all dead. Judging from the state of the cockpit, the pilots almost certainly didn’t make it.

Clarke continues to look around in a daze. There is one body a few feet away, facedown and still half in the water, with a familiar dark ponytail that has her suddenly scrambling forward, then cursing the rapid movement for the wave of dizziness it causes her. Clarke brushes wet hair out of her face and croaks out a “Raven?” as she tentatively checks for a pulse.

It’s there, and surprisingly steady, given the sizeable shard of metal protruding from her lower back. When Raven groans at her touch, Clarke lets out a wet laugh, relieved. They’d only just met, hardly knew each other really, but it was nice to find someone both familiar and _alive_ here amongst all the bloody chaos and death.

Clarke decides she needs to get Raven out of the water, and after a bracing count of three heaves herself to standing, only swaying a little once she’s upright. Bending at the waist, she wraps both hands around Raven’s left bicep and prepares to drag her as carefully as possible, when a pair of feet enters her line of sight. Clarke tilts her head up to see a pretty girl with dripping brown curls and sharp green eyes standing over them.

“Need help?” the girl asks.

Clarke’s voice has, for some reason (that’s a lie – she knows exactly what reason), decided to give up on her, so she merely nods and waits for the girl to position her hands under Raven’s other arm before starting to pull.

“Careful, we don’t want to disturb that metal,” Clarke warns as they kick debris out of the way, managing to get Raven safely onshore before dropping to the ground on either side of her. Clarke gently maneuvers Raven’s head so her face is no longer pressed into the sand.

“Do you have medical training?” the girl asks, peering at Clarke curiously.

Clarke nods. “My mom’s a doctor. When I was fifteen she insisted I start taking all of the first aid classes offered at her hospital, so I have some basic training,” she replies, shrugging. “I’m Clarke, by the way. And this is Raven.” She gestures to the unconscious girl between them. She’s going to have to address the scrap of metal potentially lodged in Raven’s spine soon, but for the moment it’s not going anywhere. Hopefully.

The other girl smiles, just a tiny quirk of her lips. “Lexa. And if you are able, I think there is a guard over there that could use your help.” She points a thumb over her shoulder, where Clarke can see a couple of kids squatting beside a prostrate figure in a guard uniform. Fanned out all around them are a number of other teenagers in soaked green jumpsuits, huddling alone or in groups and nursing various injuries. The wounded guard is the only adult in sight.

Nodding, Clarke glances back down at Raven, and then up to Lexa with a beseeching look. “Stay with her?”

Lexa’s expression grows serious. “Of course,” she says softly.

Clarke tries to ignore the oddly affectionate flutter in her chest, because this is so not the right time, and stands, making her way over to the guard. She can feel Lexa’s and the two other kids’ eyes on her as she kneels in the sand and takes a deep breath.

The guard’s face is badly, unrecognizably burnt, uniform tattered and soaked with blood, but they’re still breathing, although it’s labored, likely due to a crushed ribcage. She presses two fingers to the least charred side of the guard’s throat and finds a thready pulse.

Clarke sighs. “Without a proper medical facility they’ll die within a few of hours at most, and suffer through all of them. We…” She swallows the lump in her throat. The terrible reality of this whole situation is starting to hit, and hit hard. “We should put them out of their misery.” She looks up at the two boys in front of her, who stare back wide-eyed and silent.

Glancing around, Clarke spots a scrap of metal debris near the guard’s feet, just about the right size to grip in her hand. Knowing she has to do it, that there is no other choice, doesn’t make it any easier. She reaches for the makeshift knife, settling it in her palm for a moment, stinging eyes drifting back to the charred and expressly miserable face of the guard.

Licking her chapped lips and resolving herself with a quick nod, Clarke grips the metal in her left hand and brings her right up to gently cup the side of the guard’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. With a sure movement, she slips the sharpest point of the scrap metal directly into the guard’s artery and waits a few seconds for the labored breaths to stop completely before pulling away.

Clarke hurriedly tosses away the bloody shard of aluminum and stands on shaky legs to make her way back over to Raven and to Lexa, who watches her with soft eyes that belie the grim set to her mouth.

As she’s dropping heavily back onto the sand, suddenly aware that the panicked screams and splashes from earlier have been replaced by a general air of stunned silence, Clarke hears one of the shaggy-haired boys who’d just watched her slit a person’s throat ask, “Now what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not read this over before posting because it is 3 a.m. so I apologize for any mistakes. Most of the other characters will show up in the next chapter. There will also be more Clarke/Lexa interaction for those interested.Not sure when I'll have the chapter done, though. Also, special thanks to [ chrmdpoet ](http://chrmdpoet.tumblr.com) for saying it would be all right for me write this from the AU idea someone sent her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slight delay on this. I started another multi-chapter fic for The 100 (because I have no self control and a distinct inability to make good decisions) and I'm also not much of a regular updater, so fair warning there. I'll try my best, though. Hope you all enjoy this chapter and I would love/appreciate any feedback. Thanks!

What Clarke had at first estimated to be about a quarter of the inmates dead is now looking more like half, as a more comprehensive look around tells her far too many never made it off the plane.

Some of the burnt and broken bodies of those that did make it off are already drifting out to sea, but Clarke can’t find it in herself to be concerned about it when she is trying to figure out how to perform makeshift emergency surgery on Raven’s back. There must have been a first aid kit on the plane. Finding it amongst all this wreckage will be another matter entirely.

Clarke glances behind her, where the sand extends up to a lush green forest, the tree line of which is dotted with injured juvenile delinquents.

Lexa had gotten up about five minutes into Clarke’s pondering, claiming she would start gathering anyone physically well enough to start sorting through the wreckage for anything useful. Admittedly, Clarke had been skeptical of the girl’s ability to take charge, but she doesn’t think she’s ever been more wrong in judging a book by its cover. Lexa appears to be a natural born leader, rallying up the kids with uninjured arms and legs and compelling them into action, ushering the ones who can’t help to sit in the shade of the trees and tend to each other’s wounds. There is a commanding presence about Lexa that those around her don’t seem to question.

Shaking her head to draw herself out of her dazed staring, Clarke turns and calls out to Lexa, beckoning her over when she looks back.

Lexa crosses the beach and stops a few feet from Clarke and Raven. “Yes, Clarke?”

Clarke tilts her head back to meet Lexa’s eyes and has to squint her own against the glaring sun. “There should have been a first aid kit on the plane. If anyone finds it, can you ask them to bring it to me?” She glances down at Raven’s back, which is thankfully not bleeding much around the protruding metal. “I’m going to need it.”

Lexa gives a short nod, drying brown curls bouncing in the cool island breeze. “I have found another person with some first aid training who is helping attend to the more serious injuries over there.” She points to the tree line, where a tall, muscular boy Clarke had somehow missed seeing before is limping around and using what appears to be torn strips of prison jumpsuit to wrap various wounds. “His name is Nyko. Perhaps you can help each other.”

Clarke thanks her and smiles, watching as Lexa walks back up the beach, approaching a girl with blondish hair and sharp cheekbones. Her attention is quickly drawn away from the inaudible conversation by a loud exclamation just a few meters beyond them, and Clarke is pleasantly surprised to see Octavia running to embrace a tall boy with dark, curly hair who she assumes to be the brother Octavia had mentioned on the bus.

She watches quietly for a moment as they crash together, the force of her brother’s hug lifting Octavia off her feet.

“Clarke!”

She is startled out of her observation of the touching reunion by a familiar voice, and Clarke nearly sobs in relief before turning around to verify that it is, in fact, her best friend – alive and _here_ and not stuck back in that corrupt prison or dead under a pile of smoking debris. She launches herself off the ground just in time to meet Wells in a crushing embrace of their own.

Clarke clings to him for a long moment, until she registers the way his breaths almost seem to rattle under the palms she has pressed to his back. Frowning, she draws away from the hug to see the pained grimace barely hidden beneath his joyful expression.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” She asks it even though she already knows the answer, her hands reaching out to prod gently at ribs that are surely broken beneath the soggy green jumpsuit.

Wells tries to wave off her concern, eyes drifting past her shoulder to where Raven still lays facedown and unconscious in the sand. “Is she…?”

Clarke shakes her head assuredly and then urges him to sit down. “Careful,” she warns as Wells obliges. “Can you undo your jumpsuit? I need to check your ribs.”

Wells sighs, or tries to, but the wince undercuts his exasperation. “Clarke, I’m fine. A twisted ankle and a couple fractured ribs that hurt like hell, but I don’t think I’ve punctured a lung or anything.” He gestures to Raven, who is starting to moan and twitch as she comes to again. “Clearly, she needs your help more than I do.”

“No,” Clarke shakes her head again and bats at his gesturing hand. “I can’t do much of anything for Raven until someone finds that med kit. Let me help you.”

Wells looks about to protest until she adds, more quietly, “Please,” and his resolve crumbles.

“Fine,” he says, tugging open his jumpsuit while trying his best not to agitate his ribs. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he tells Clarke after a moment, allowing her to help pull the jumpsuit past his shoulders and lift up the white cotton T-shirt underneath.

“Likewise,” whispers Clarke. “I’m really sorry for getting you in trouble in the first place, Wells. If I had known-”

“Clarke, stop. You’re my best friend. I would’ve helped you whether you asked me to or not.”

Clarke feels no less guilty, but she settles for smiling and reaching out to gently palpate his bruised ribs until she’s satisfied that Wells was right about there being no serious internal damage. The labored breathing she’d felt must be from the pain. “Don’t move around too much,” she instructs as he pulls his clothes back into place. “We should wrap your ribs at some point, but it will probably have to wait until more makeshift bandages have been salvaged from the jumpsuits of…of the kids who didn’t make it.”

Wells nods. “I can work on that.”

Raising an eyebrow, Clarke responds, “Wells, tearing apart the jumpsuits of dead kids is not what I meant by resting. You shouldn’t-”

“I’ll get some help,” Wells interrupts. “Those two look like they could use a job.” He points to two boys standing at the edge of the water.

Clarke recognizes them as the two who had watched her earlier when she put the guard out of their misery. At some point since she’d last seen them, the boys had tugged down the top portions of their jumpsuits to hang around their waists, leaving the white T-shirts worn underneath to dry in the sun. They seem a bit lost, standing there, and Clarke can’t help but nod in agreement with Wells’ statement.

“Okay,” she concedes. “But please be careful.”

“Of course.” With Clarke’s help, Wells successfully returns to his feet, and she watches him trudge away to talk to the boys until she feels a hand on her shoulder.

Spinning around, Clarke is happy to find that it’s Lexa standing there, and she’s holding out a hefty first aid kit, which, while still blessedly intact, looks like it’s seen better days. It’s dripping water onto the sand at their feet and appears a little charred in places, so Clarke can only hope that the supplies inside are well packaged.

She takes the bag from Lexa and smiles. “Thanks.”

The corners of Lexa’s mouth twitch in response as she points to one of the kids she’d enlisted to sift through the debris. “Ryder found it. He was going to give it to Nyko, but I thought I’d bring it to you first. For Raven.” She gestures to the girl on the ground, who Clarke realizes is finally blinking open her eyes.

Clarke thanks Lexa again as she nods and walks off, presumably returning to oversee the search efforts, and promptly drops to the ground to start digging through the med kit.

She hears Raven groan. “Am I dead?”

Clarke starts to chuckle, but one glance at Raven’s wound sobers her up instantly. “No,” she replies, “You’re still alive.”

“Good,” Raven sighs. “My intelligence is too valuable to be wasted on a premature death.”

Clarke can’t help but laugh again as she rummages through the soggy contents of the med kit, pulling out a stitch kit, a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, and some gauze that is thankfully wrapped in plastic and not paper, leaving it perfectly dry. “Our plane crashed. Do you remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. That sucked.” It’s quiet for a moment, then, “Why am I laying facedown in the sand, Clarke?”

Clarke attempts to school her features before making eye contact. “How are you feeling, Raven?”

“Pretty shitty,” is Raven’s immediate response, but the furrow in her brow tells Clarke there’s more to add. Her next words come in a near whisper, her voice croaking slightly as she says, “I can’t feel my legs.”

Clarke’s heart drops into her stomach as her worst fears for Raven’s condition are confirmed. She swallows thickly and rests what she hopes is a comforting hand on Raven’s shoulder. “You’ve got a piece of metal from the plane lodged in your lower back. I suspect it’s probably damaged your spine in some way.”

Raven gulps audibly. “Can you take it out?”

“I can try,” Clarke says quietly. “I’m not a doctor. I have about as much medical training as an EMT, thanks to my mom, but any number of things could go wrong if I attempt to remove the metal. You might bleed out, or-”

“And if you don’t remove it?”

“You…you’ll definitely never walk again,” Clarke sighs. “And you’ll probably go into septic shock if it’s left in there too long. That could happen either way, actually. I-”

“Take it out,” Raven interrupts. “If there’s even the slightest chance I’ll be able to walk again, I want you to try.”

“Raven… Are you sure?”

Raven nods, cheek sliding against the sand beneath her. “Please, Clarke.”

Sighing, Clarke busies herself with unwrapping some of the gauze in preparation of soaking up the blood. “Okay,” she says. “This is really going to hurt. I couldn’t find any sedatives or strong painkillers in the kit, so…” She trails off, meeting Raven’s resolved gaze.

“I can handle it,” Raven declares, gritting her teeth.

Footsteps in the sand cause Clarke to raise her head, and she sees Octavia and her brother approaching them slowly. She forces a smile that feels more like a grimace.

Octavia smiles tentatively back, eyes flicking over Raven’s prone form. “Hey, Clarke. Glad you’re alive.” Pointing to the boy on her right, she adds, “I found my brother. Bellamy.”

Clarke nods. “Octavia, perfect. I could use some help.”

Shaking her head, Octavia motions between herself and her brother. “Neither of us knows anything about medicine.”

“You don’t need to,” Clarke tells them, gesturing for the two to take a seat on Raven’s opposite side. “I just need one of you to hold Raven’s hand while the other holds this gauze ready.” She passes the gauze to Octavia, who is in the best position to help stem the blood flow when the time comes.

“Hold my hand?” Raven scoffs.

“Yes,” Clarke insists. “It will help if you have something to grip onto. Also, you should bite down on this.” Clarke grabs a hunk of driftwood and brushes off the sand before holding it up to Raven’s lips.

Raven reluctantly takes it between her teeth. After a moment, her right hand reaches out to take Bellamy’s proffered hand in a tight grip.

“Okay.” Clarke takes a deep breath. “Ready?”

Raven nods sharply, unable to speak around the driftwood. Clarke nods back reassuringly, then glances at Octavia and Bellamy in turn to ensure they are also ready.

“Okay,” she says again, and uses a scalpel from the kit to cut away enough of Raven’s jumpsuit to allow her space to work. Clarke then takes a final, steadying breath and grips onto the free end of the metal shard.

Raven’s scream when she begins to remove the metal is loud enough to startle everyone on the beach into turning in their direction, but Clarke barely registers this, trying her best to remain focused on the task of not accidentally severing Raven’s spine completely, despite the fear clenching at her gut. If Raven’s lack of feeling in her legs hadn’t been a clear indication of nerve damage, the brief glimpse Clarke gets of the inside of the wound before Octavia presses the gauze over it certainly is.

Clarke repeatedly mutters apologies to her throughout the removal process, though she doubts they’re audible over the agonized screams ringing in their ears. She’s relieved, for the sake of both Raven and the frayed nerves of everyone on the beach, when Raven passes out as soon as the metal is out of her back.

Clarke makes quick work of cleaning and stitching the wound after that. She takes the blood-soaked gauze from Octavia and stuffs it back into its plastic wrapping before shoving it away in the first aid kit to deal with later, dumping the other supplies in after it and grabbing a gauze pad and some medical tape.

She looks up at Bellamy and Octavia as she finishes taping a bandage down and says, “Thanks for the help.”

Bellamy nods and Octavia exhales loudly as she does the same.

“Can you guys help me carry her over to the tree line?” asks Clarke, indicating the shaded area making up Nyko’s makeshift infirmary. “I want to get her out of the sun.”

They agree and all three move to stand, brushing sand off of their clothes as they do so. Clarke tucks the handles of the first aid kit over the crook of her left arm and then stoops with Bellamy and Octavia to carefully lift Raven off the ground.

Clarke’s urging not to jostle her too much slows them down somewhat, but they eventually get Raven to the tree line and settle her in the sparse grass there, still face down. Clarke suggests Bellamy and Octavia go help out with Lexa’s salvaging efforts and they walk off in reluctant agreement as Clarke turns to meet Nyko’s approach.

He’s even larger than he looked from a distance, and she thinks he might have been a Grounder back at TonDC, but his eyes are friendly and understanding as they introduce themselves and Clarke explains the nature of Raven’s injury.

“Emergency surgery on the beach of a deserted island,” Nyko intones, stuffing his large fists into the pockets of his jumpsuit. “Impressive.”

“Thanks.” Clarke chuckles dryly and then hands him the first aid kit. Nyko takes it with a quiet nod and walks off as Clarke slumps to the ground beside Raven, leaning back against a tree and reveling in the slight reprieve from the hot sun provided by the shade of the tree line.

It only takes another few minutes for Raven to come to again, groaning as she did the last time. Clarke watches, relieved, as Raven licks at dry, chapped lips and rolls her eyes up until her gaze meets Clarke’s.

“Still not dead, huh?” Raven croaks. “Awesome.”

Clarke smiles. “How do you feel?” Her eyes involuntarily flick to Raven’s outstretched legs, searching for signs of movement.

“Like my spine is on fire,” Raven answers.

At Clarke’s request, she lets her remove her shoes and socks and then obediently tries to wiggle her toes when Clarke tells her to. She’s straining her neck to peer over her shoulder as she does so. Clarke watches with a sinking heart that reflects the dwindling hope in Raven’s eyes as the toes on Raven’s left foot remain entirely still.

“One leg out of two. I can work with that,” Raven jokes weakly. She lets her head drop back down.

Smiling reassuringly, Clarke reaches out to rest a hand over Raven’s. “Once the wound on your back has healed enough we’ll make you some crutches and get you moving around again, Raven. I promise.”

“Crutches on a sandy beach. Great,” Raven says, but she tacks on a quiet “Thanks” at the end that Clarke accepts with a small smile.

They’re quiet for a moment, Clarke putting Raven’s socks and shoes back on, before Raven speaks again. She shifts to pillow her head on crossed forearms as she asks, “Do you think you could try to find Finn for me? I saw him on the bus so I know he was on the plane. I’m sure a lot of people didn’t survive the crash, but…”

“Of course,” Clarke responds softly.

Raven smiles wanly. “Thanks, Clarke.” She describes Finn’s appearance to Clarke, who stands up once she’s finished and departs with a promise to return as soon as possible.

* * *

Ultimately, Clarke stumbles upon Finn by accident.

She’s helping Lexa and the girl from earlier, another Grounder inmate named Anya, dig around in some rubble that landed far down the beach from the body of the plane when she pulls away a sheet of metal to reveal a dead boy underneath.

Despite having seen enough corpses today to last her a lifetime, Clarke stumbles backward in surprise, until she manages to regain her bearings and kneels down to check his pulse just in case. There’s nothing, so she sits back on her heels dejectedly, fiddling with a mangled handcuff sitting in the sand by her foot. It takes her another minute to realize the boy is a good match to the description that Raven had given her.

She really hopes it’s not him. Not that she would wish another person’s death in Finn’s place, but she isn’t sure she has the strength to deliver this news to Raven, who had seemed so guilty talking about her friend’s arrest back on the plane. Whatever guilt is plaguing Clarke over ruining Wells’ life with her decisions, it would surely pale in comparison to Raven’s feelings when she learns her friend no longer has a life at all.

Clarke tries to think positively, though she has a sinking feeling she’s found the right person. She recalls Raven’s description of Finn – white guy, long brown hair, average height – honestly, that could probably describe a lot of the teenage boys on their flight, Clarke reasons. Brown eyes, a “dumb, almost smug-looking” smile. She glances down at the boy, with his closed eyes and definite inability to smile at anyone ever again. And one of the bars used to shackle their ankles down in the plane now protruding from his chest.

There is very little blood staining the fabric around the injury, and no blood on the visible portion of the metal bar, suggesting it entered from the front and pierced his heart.

That’s something, at least. He probably died quickly.

Clarke looks up when she hears footsteps, and stands when she sees Anya and Lexa approaching, the former carrying an armful of potentially useful items such as makeshift knives.

“Find anything?” Lexa asks, eyes flicking to the body behind Clarke.

Clarke shakes her head. “Not much. Just this.” She taps the broad sheet of metal from earlier with the toe of her sneaker. “And Finn,” she adds softly. She avoids looking back at him, already resolving herself to tell Raven the news.

“You know him?” Anya asks.

“No,” Clarke sighs. “But I promised someone I would find him.”

They drop the subject after that, and Lexa helps Clarke carry the sheet of metal back to what they’ve deemed their home base. They figure it might be useful for building shelters later on, if no one ends up coming to their rescue. And judging by the whispers being exchanged around the beach, it seems a lot of the kids aren’t hopeful about that, Lexa being one of them.

Clarke finds it easier now, with her impending delivery of the news of Finn’s death looming in her mind, to stop staring appreciatively at Lexa, whose curly brown hair is now fully dried and framing her face in a flattering mane. Okay, so maybe only slightly easier.

Reminding herself that now is a terrible time for her to be feeling like a typical horny teenager, Clarke makes a valiant effort to push those thoughts away again, at least for the time being.

Sighing in resignation, Clarke bids farewell to Anya and Lexa both and slowly makes her way back over to Raven.

The news goes over better than Clarke had thought it would, though she thinks that’s probably because Raven is excellent at concealing her emotions.

A subdued “Oh” is her only response, so Clarke apologizes one more time and then leaves to give Raven some space. Even the knowledge that his death was quick is probably little consolation in the face of everything else that has happened in the span of a few hours.

For a while after that, Clarke ambles around helping Nyko, tending now to the less life threatening wounds and drawing only sparingly from the first aid kit. Kids filter in and out of their little medical area, most seeking treatment or checking on friends, some just to get out of the heat or avoid helping out in the salvaging efforts.

She finds Wells carefully propped against a tree, using a sharp scrap of metal to create tears in the fabric of a few jumpsuits so Jasper and Monty, the boys who had watched her kill the suffering guard, can more easily tear the fabric into strips for bandages.

“Miller stripped a few bodies for us,” Monty tells Clarke solemnly. “None of us were able to…to actually do it ourselves.”

“Well, we would have,” Jasper defends, all false bravado, “but Miller offered.”

Clarke doesn’t know who Miller is, but she assumes he’s one of the kids now helping heft bodies into the gaping cabin of the plane (or what’s left of it) and out of sight. Lexa had suggested burning them, on their way back earlier, but Clarke doesn’t want to dwell on death anymore if she can help it, so she turns around and forces Wells to stop working and let her wrap his ribcage.

She’s just finishing up when Lexa approaches. She looks around with an appraising eye and says a few words to Nyko before walking over to Clarke, who rises to meet her.

“Nice work,” Lexa comments, indicating the gathering of ‘patients’ behind her.

“Thanks,” Clarke says. “Need something looked at?” She tries her best not to cringe or blush when she realizes how one could construe what she’s just said.

Clarke is sure the smirk that flashes across Lexa’s face is merely a trick of the light, because it’s gone when she answers, “No. Just getting out of the sun for a minute.” Her gaze shifts to Clarke’s forehead. “But perhaps you should take a moment to tend to your own wounds.”

Clarke frowns, reaching up to slide her fingertips along her hairline, feeling the deep cut running diagonally just above her right eyebrow. A fresh stream of blood has begun to drip down her temple. She hadn’t even noticed. “Oh.”

Lexa follows as Clarke walks over to the first aid kit and pulls out an antiseptic wipe. “Thanks,” she says softly, wincing at the sting of the alcohol. She feels compelled to say something else, start a conversation with Lexa, but she’s at a loss.

“Of course.” They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, until Lexa turns her head, staring at something over Clarke’s shoulder.

Clarke turns to look, stuffing the soiled antiseptic wipe into the pocket of her jumpsuit.

A guy roughly their age, with muscly arms and a shaved head, is walking towards them carrying some kind of machinery from the plane. He’s followed closely by a boy who looks no older than thirteen and is hefting yet more equipment.

Lexa stares at them expectantly as they near her and Clarke. “Lincoln, Artigas. What have you found?” she asks. Clarke is moderately impressed by her ability to remember everyone’s name.

The guy with the shaved head, who Clarke assumes is Lincoln, hefts the thing in his arms up to give them a better look. “Something from the cockpit,” he says. He tilts his head in the direction of the younger boy. “Artigas has some other pieces. I think it might be the radio, or whatever the pilots use to communicate with towers and stuff.”

“But it’s sort of broken,” Artigas adds.

“Can you fix it?” Lexa asks, reaching out to poke at a switch on the machine in Lincoln’s arms.

Lincoln and Artigas shake their heads in unison. “I don’t really know much about this kind of thing,” Lincoln says. “We asked a few other people digging through the wreckage, but…”

Clarke nods her head as she peers at the battered communication system. She’s no use in this department, either. But Raven had gushed about NASA equipment on the plane and is a self-proclaimed genius, so maybe… “I think I know someone who might be able to help,” she says.

“Who?” Lexa asks.

Clarke leads Lincoln, Artigas, and Lexa over to where Raven is still resting on her stomach, chin balanced on her forearms as she stares blankly down the beach toward the wreckage. When the boys set the equipment on the ground in front of Raven at Clarke’s behest, Clarke is equal parts pleased and relieved to note a spark of interest pass in Raven’s eyes. She kneels down to get closer to her after Lincoln and Artigas step back.

“Hey, Raven.”

Raven twists her neck to work out the kinks and then turns her gaze to Clarke. “Hey. Brought me a present?”

Clarke smiles. “Yeah.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the guys standing behind her. “Lincoln and Artigas found this stuff in the cockpit. They think it might be the radio or something, but it’s a little worse for wear. You mentioned all that NASA equipment on the plane, so I was hoping…”

Raven reaches out to fiddle with a few switches, then prods at the wiring on the other side. “Yeah, totally. I can work with this.”

“Really?” asks Lexa.

Craning her neck to see who had spoken, Raven fixes her with a hard gaze. “You bet your ass I can.” She scoffs, “A radio? This is child’s play.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Clarke chuckles, amused by Raven’s attitude and Lexa’s disgruntled expression.

* * *

An hour or so later, Clarke finds herself standing on the beach alone, gazing out across the vast blue water sparkling in the light of the late afternoon sun. The slight breeze from earlier has picked up, providing a welcome relief from the muggy heat. She has her sleeves pushed up, arms crossed, wondering idly whether anyone back in DC has noticed their disappearance yet, but mostly just trying to clear her mind.

Her fingers itch for paints, charcoal, anything she can use to capture the tragic beauty of the scene around her. The clear, shimmering ocean and wispy clouds, the still smoking remains of the plane, the exhausted forms of teenage prisoners turned survivors.

Lexa had gotten a count from a boy named Gustus not long ago. Thirty-two survivors, all inmates. Most more or less physically well off, given the circumstances.

The salvaging efforts had begun to wan as people became tired and hungry, though they’d proven fairly successful. A stolid girl named Indra had found some of the food that was intended for their consumption on the plane and it had been passed around half an hour ago to help tame everyone’s hunger. There is enough to last them another day or two, if they ration properly, but if they don’t find water soon, Clarke knows things are going to get even more difficult. The heat of the island climate coupled with the day’s exertion will only serve to expedite the process of dehydration.

Some of the kids are eager to explore the island better, maybe find a stream or waterfall, but pain and exhaustion from the day’s events are holding them back until tomorrow, which is probably for the best. They don’t need to lose any more people by allowing them to wander aimlessly in a dark, unfamiliar forest.

“At least we crashed somewhere nice.”

The voice startles Clarke out of her reverie, and she turns to see who it belongs to, smiling slightly when Bellamy comes to stand beside her, hands shoved deep in his jumpsuit pockets.

“Yeah, I guess,” Clarke agrees quietly. Another breeze rustles their hair and she inhales deeply.

Bellamy glances at her. “You guess?”

Clarke shrugs. “I won’t be satisfied until we find some potable water, but sure, I guess the tropical locale is all right.”

“I see,” Bellamy chuckles.

“And I wouldn’t mind getting rescued soon, either,” Clarke adds.

He grunts in response, and Clarke turns to raise an eyebrow at him. “What? You don’t want to be rescued?”

“Rescued from what?” Bellamy asks, shrugging. “They’d come and get us, only to throw us right back in prison. There’s nothing for us – not back in DC and not where we were heading. At least here we have freedom. Maybe it will take a while, but we could make it work.”

“Make what work? Living here indefinitely?” Clarke questions.

Bellamy shrugs again, leaving it at that.

Clarke looks back to the water, humming noncommittally and kicking at the sand. After a moment, she asks, “Where’s Octavia?”

“Flirting,” Bellamy grumbles, and Clarke laughs, looking over her shoulder to see Octavia sitting near the trees with Lincoln and a few other boys, including an enamored-looking Jasper. She says something Clarke can’t hear and everyone laughs.

“She told me to go away,” Bellamy explains, remaining firmly turned away from the scene.

“And you did?” Clarke asks, somewhat surprised. From Octavia’s brief description of him on the bus, Clark had figured Bellamy would be more of the staunchly protective type.

“She’s forceful and stubborn,” he huffs, but his smile belies the surly tone. “Eventually I just gave up. We’ve been locked up for months. She’d flirt whether I was standing there or not.”

Clarke chuckles again. She’s about to comment when she hears someone call her name.

“Clarke!” they call again, and Clarke turns, spotting Raven’s beckoning arm in the distance. She glances at Bellamy and then makes her way up the beach, Bellamy trailing curiously behind her.

They come to a stop about a foot from Raven’s setup, and a few others, Lexa included, move to join them. Somehow, Raven got her hands on a scalpel from the med kit and some scraps from the wreckage of various shapes and sizes that she must have been using for tools. She pushes them all aside as she draws the radio a little closer and flicks a switch on the front of it. The sound of uninterrupted static begins to emanate from the speaker.

“Hear that?” Raven asks.

They all shake their heads, confused.

“Hear what?” Clarke wonders. “There’s nothing but static.”

“Exactly.” Raven flips the switch again and the noise cuts off abruptly.

“So, you were not able to fix it?” asks Lexa, brows furrowing.

Raven rolls her eyes. “Of course I fixed it. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is the problem, Raven?” Clarke counters, somewhat impatiently.

Tapping a finger against the metal casing of the radio, Raven looks up and fixes everyone with a grim stare. “The problem is that there’s some sort of interference.”

“Interference?” Bellamy echoes.

Raven hums her confirmation and continues. “Somewhere on this island, someone is transmitting what I suspect is a powerful signal. It’s interfering with communication and it’s fucking with the functionality of this equipment.” She raps her knuckles against the side of the radio. “And I’m guessing that signal is what brought down our plane.”


End file.
